24

Pellam supposed that he'd known all along it would come to this.

He walked to the right, out of the glare, onto the driveway, gravel scrunching beneath the worn sole of his Nokonas. He stopped and felt an odd sensation-growing into the drive, like roots going down, solid as the granite slabs the gravel used to be. "Hey, mister. Hey, Mr Torrens."

"What the hell-"

"Quiet," Pellam ordered Keith. The man froze.

This was definitely the ending of a film-not like one of his, though, in which viewers felt all that tension, then nothing happening, the principals moving vaguely off into the credits (boy, he took flak for those endings. Resolve it, John, resolve it. How the world hates the truth of ambiguity).

But here it was. Pretty damn clear to him. A man slouching out onto the porch, holding in his hand an automatic pistol. Meg said she didn't like handguns. They're man-killing guns, she'd have been thinking, no other purpose for them.

The man slouching.

"You interrupted me," the twin said. "Was just about to sit down and watch some TV with a little friend in there."

And where's the other one, Pellam wondered, his brother?

Behind him?

Behind me?

Inside, with Sam?

"Where's Meg?" Pellam asked.

"Whatcha doin' here, mister?"

"Which one're you?"

"Bobby. Hey, don't you move there, Mr Torrens. You do, I'll have to kill you too."

Pellam asked, "You the one who did it?"

"Did what?"

"Killed my friend."

"S'pose you know if I tell you I'll have to make sure that fact doesn't go any further."

"That's pretty much on the agenda anyway, isn't it?" Pellam asked.

"Heh."

"I just want to know if it was you killed Marty."

"Was a hell of a shot, I do say so myself." Not smirking. Just mentioning the fact.

"Whatcha got there?" Bobby asked. "In your belt?"

"It'd be a Colt Peacemaker."

"No kidding. Smokeless powder? Reproduction?"

"Nope. It's the real thing."

"No kidding. Forty-four?"

"Forty-five."

"Heh."

"Where's your brother?"

"Maybe he's behind you."

"So you'll die first," Pellam said.

"Heh."

"Please…" Keith was begging. "Where's my son?"

They both ignored him.

There was no motion. Pellam stood on the wet gravel, his feet, in scuffed black boots, slightly apart.

There was no noise.

There was nothing else in the world except a man standing in front of him with a gun in his hand. A tall Victorian house. With a woman and boy inside, her husband nearby. Under a canopy of a dry, clear fall night.

Pellam had shot ducks and geese and a number of Gila monsters and rattlesnakes and hundreds of Heineken bottles.

He'd never shot a man.

The security lights poured into his eyes, making Bobby a silhouette. (Pellam recalled that, on various target ranges, he'd shot as many silhouette targets as Gila monsters and rattlesnakes combined.)

No face, no motion, no sound.

In the stillness, in this dense peace, a thought came to him. Something he remembered from researching a script about the Indians of the Great Plains. The Sioux, he believed. Waking up on a beautiful day, they wouldn't think how good it was to be alive. What they'd say was, "It's a good day to die."

Good, Pellam. Good thought.

Well, Wild Bill himself hadn't lived to see forty.

Then, finally, motion intruded on the scene. It was a cliché-one that Pellam, if he were directing a Western, wouldn't have allowed the writer to use: He pulled his blue jean jacket open slightly wider to fully expose the grip of his pistol.

The way Bobby saw it (Bobby who had shot a man-several of them, in fact-but only in the backs of their heads after being paid ten thousand dollars each to do it) these were good odds. Pellam had glare in his eyes and he had a single-action gun so he'd have to draw and cock it before he could shoot. It was a six-shot gun and it would take probably three minutes to reload. If he had extra ammo on him. Which he probably didn't.

Also, he figured Pellam hadn't shot anybody in the back of the head or anyplace else for any money.

Bobby, on the other hand, was already holding a cocked Browning automatic.380 with twelve rounds in it. Which all you had to do was aim and pull the trigger. The light was behind him. He could reload the Browning in two seconds.

Torrens was in the yard, true, but he wasn't going to do diddly except stand there like a scared rabbit.

He hoped Billy was watching him. He never missed a chance to impress his smarter brother.

What he'd do is let the guy go for the gun then shoot him in his leg. Watch him fall. Then let him crawl a little. Shoot again.

Maybe he'd aim for Pellam's boots. They were a good contrast, black on the white gravel. But so were the man's eyes, which glinted two reflections from the yellow porch light. And his white shirt under the dark jacket.

But then he decided there was something about the way the man had opened his jacket that made Bobby uneasy. Don't play games. Do Pellam, do Torrens. Go back to the boy. Or the mother. Or both.

Go for a chest shot.

Without really deciding, or thinking, Bobby dropped into a crouch.

He swept the gun upward in an arc, keeping his arm straight the way he knew to do and practiced every week. None of this two-hand combat shooting that nobody who knows guns really ever does. Squinting, but leaving both eyes open, as the blade sight rose right toward the white slash of Pellam's shirt. He started to pull the trigger.

Thunk.

A shovel.

Bobby thought: Goddamn… who did that?

Somebody'd snuck up and hit him in the chest with a shovel. Or… Damn, it hurt. He coughed. Or maybe it was an ax handle. Bobby dropped his unfired gun. He looked down. Where'd it go? He looked behind him. There was nobody. He looked at his chest again and saw the blood. Oh, that hurts. He was getting dizzy. Then he saw Pellam holding the Colt at his hip, surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Bobby reached for his gun. He fell to the porch. He looked for the shovel.

He asked, "Who?…"

He died.

Pellam spun around, looked behind him, into the fields to the side of the house.

No Billy.

He whispered to Keith, "Get down. Don't move." And started forward. But he didn't get very far.

The door crashed open and Billy, staggering out, dropped to his knees over Bobby, shrieking. He lifted his own gun and fired sloppily at Pellam.

Ragged blue flashes appeared in the man's hand, the huge crack of the shots filling the night. A bullet popped the sound barrier inches from his left ear with the noise of a huge snapping finger.

All Pellam had time for was one shot, from his hip. He felt the kick, smelled the sulfur from the black powder. He saw the slug dig out a chunk of the porch. Billy fired fast and Pellam dove to the ground. He hit hard, landed on his right elbow. There was a loud snap, followed by breath-taking pain. His vision went black and dusty from the dislocation. He rolled onto his back. His shoulder joint popped back into alignment. He fainted for a second. Sweat shot from his forehead and he felt nausea in a bristling wave.

He lifted the Colt. It fell from his hand. His right arm was useless.

"Bobby, oh, Bobby…" Billy was moaning.

More shots from the automatic. Bullets dug into the camper and the ground near him.

Six shots, seven, eight.

"Sonabitchsonabitch! Son… of… a… bitch!"

Pellam lifted the Colt again. But it was a replay-the gun did a double gainer to the ground.

Christ, how many shots in that clip?

Ten, eleven, twelve…

Click, click, click.

Empty. He was out. Thank you… Pellam raised his head and watched Billy reload.